


Find Me

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Character studies, Erotic, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian, Love, Lust, Mental Illness, Multi, Song fic, eventual slash, one shots, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-19 12:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17001885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: A collection of Criminal Minds one offs, in no particular order. . . lengths and ratings will vary based on what my twisted, little mind conjures up.





	1. They All Are

**Author's Note:**

> I've just started watching this show and am captivated by the various dynamics and complexities of the characters. I decided to start a little collection of one shots and character studies and we will see what happens. . . I welcome all comments and love to hear from you and I try to write back to everyone! Thank you so much for taking the time to read.

Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, “Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start,” in a song they wrote for the Sound of Music.

There were all sorts of flaws in their tuneful logic, sweet as it was. Often times, when dealing with human behavior, we must work from the inside out, or from back to front. Only in role play do we have the luxury of working a thing through from beginning to end.

Even when we are the players on the stage, we frequently do not pay enough mind to what is going on around us as it happens to understand a thing in its proper, sequential nature. And then when we go back and try to figure it out, every path leads us off into other directions, causes us to ask other questions.

The team would not have imagined this was what he was thinking about as he stared out the airplane window at the layer of clouds. He was not a man on which anyone would peg a penchant for musical theater, or an appreciation for sentimental art. And yet, he was a man who could be brought to his knees by even a single chord of cello. He was a man whose entire body tingled when he heard the oboe bring the orchestra to tune. He was a man who had befriended the chill tear that tickled the corner of his eye when he heard the moan and sigh of the music.

“Jason?”

“Hmmh?”

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Elle slipped into the seat next to him.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he answered and clasped his hands together momentarily, almost as if in prayer, before separating them and putting one on each of his thighs.

“Tough case,” she began and then stopped. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He turned to look at her.

“They all are,” he said softly. It was the best he could do.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to get some tea. Would you like some?”

“Thanks, no,” he said with a little smile. He was tired, like the rest of them, but he wouldn’t sleep. He never slept on the plane.

“Okay,” she sighed. She touched his arm, really only touching the starched material of his shirt, before she rose.

 _When we read we begin with A-B-C. ._ . he mentally sang. He looked back out the window. Relationships are not like that. You look back, and you can’t find the beginning. Not really. But for some reason, the spot on his arm where she’d touched his shirt still felt warm, almost as if it were glowing like the clouds outside the plane.


	2. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reid makes some astute observations. . . and Greenaway bites her lip. . . and Gideon deflects. . . and Hotchner frowns. 
> 
> So, basically business as usual in the BAU.

Reggae superstar Ziggy Marley sang, “You don’t know your past, you don’t know your future.”

Spencer paced the perimeter of the office. He held his empty mug between his palms. He contemplated going to fill his vessel with some manner of fluid. He’d already consumed the prerequisite amount of caffeine that morning, and suspected perhaps hydration was in order. A keen prickling in his chest suggested to him that he would benefit from 16 ounces of filtered water.

But it wasn’t just the caffeine, and it wasn’t just in his system.

The entire team seemed abuzz lately. In his mind, the young man tracked back and placed the shift to have occurred around the time Gideon returned to the BAU.

And of course there had also been the addition of Agent Elle Greenaway.

Two new personalities added to the mix. It was bound to create some waves. Some tension. Some different and fresh energy. Spencer passed his mug back and forth between his hands. He narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t necessarily a negative factor. And it wasn’t that he didn’t have an easy time with change. It was more that he caught the shift as keenly as a coyote would have caught the waft of a strange animal encroaching his territory. He breathed in the energy that hummed around him like a hive.

“Oops! Excuse me, Spence!” JJ bumped into him and he nearly dropped his cup. She looked quickly up from her file and at his cup. “Thank goodness that wasn’t full. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” she explained and looked back down into the open file that had regained her entire attention. She marched on toward Agent Hochner’s office.

“No harm no foul,” Spencer muttered with a sideways smile. Never in his life had anyone called him ‘Spence’ before. He’d have to remember to include that little nugget in his letter to his mother today. Agent Jareau’s collision had momentarily distracted him, but he got right back on task.

And then he saw it.

Agent Gideon had emerged from his office. He’d made his way almost silently to Agent Greenaway’s desk. He leaned over it and said something to her in an imperceptible voice. They hadn’t started working on a case yet that week, so it was improbable he was chatting her up about work. So what could it be that made him dip, in a gesture so delicate and graceful it was almost dance-like, and speak low to Elle? Spencer Reid might not have been an expert on human relationships, but he did know that words only told half the story. Maybe they didn’t even tell half.

In this case, the story seemed to be told when Elle looked up at Jason and her eyes widened. Spencer didn’t need to have her hooked up to monitor her telemetries to know that her pupils had dilated and her blood pressure had increased, even though their flesh had not come at all close to one another. Their eye contact lasted a few seconds, but even still, it seemed a few seconds too long, and Spencer found himself biting his lower lip at the same time Elle bit hers while she watched Jason’s back retreat. The story did not seem to need words, and yet, Spencer did not know how to read it. He knew only there was a thin film of sweat over his lip as he made his way to the water cooler.

After his 16 ounces, he found himself in Agent Gideon’s doorway.

“You need something, Spencer?” Jason looked at his computer. Light reflected off the lenses of his glasses.

“They say those who don’t know their past are doomed to repeat it,” Spencer offered and he wasn’t even sure why he made this statement.

At this, Jason looked up. He removed his glasses. He folded them and placed them on his desk. He regarded Spencer with a benevolent curiosity. He raised a hand to invite Spencer into his office. Spencer took a step in. “What’s up?” Jason asked.

“You and Agent Greenaway,” Spencer began, but had no clue what to say next.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Jason said.

“Is there. . . history? The way you look at her. The way you bend to speak in her ear. . . it all seems to imply a sort of intimacy.”

“What would you know of these things, Dr. Reid? Other than what you’ve read in books of course?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Spencer began. He took another step into Gideon’s office and felt very much like a chess piece on a board. “I know only that there could be complications. A ripple effect. It could touch other members on the team if left unchecked.”

“You don’t need to worry,” Jason said. He tapped his glasses against his desk blotter and smiled through his lips at the frowning PhD. “Really.”

“But am I right? There is history?”

“I have history with everyone in this building,” Jason sighed. “It’s sort of inevitable at this stage of the game.”

“You don’t have history with me.” Spencer frowned.

“Uh, well, you were barely born when I started at the BAU,” Jason chuckled. “And we’ve only just met, so give it time Dr. Reid. Give it time.”

“Okay,” Spencer nodded. Somewhere in his brain he got an impulse to smile, but just a little, because it was appropriate, given the situation, and given that Agent Gideon was smiling at him.

“And really, don’t worry. We’re all good. Okay?”

Spencer walked away and Aaron took his place in Jason’s door. “Are we?” Aaron asked.

“Hey there, Hotch. What’s up?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation with Reid.”

“Yeah? So?”

“So are we good? Are we really?”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to profile a profiler, Hotchner?”

“Um, yes. I believe it was you who told me that, Jason.” Aaron took another step into Jason’s office. “But it is true. You have history with almost everyone here. History, in one fashion or another. Is that going to be a problem?”

“You tell me, Aaron,” Jason said and pushed back from his desk slightly, but remained seated in his executive chair. “Is it going to be a problem? Or is your jealousy going to be a problem?”

The two men regarded one another in a moment, thick with tension and laden with memory, over the desk. Jason’s chestnut eyes met Aaron’s burnished gaze and held until Aaron looked away. “He’s right, Jason. Don’t forget the past and let ignorance dictate the future.”

Jason sniffed and nodded. “Sounds like something you’d say,” he said. He put his glasses back on and turned his attention back to his computer screen.


	3. Another Shade of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ". . . I'm in awe of his despair, but I am there. . .  
> In his face age descends on youth, exaggeration on the truth,  
> He caught me looking then, but soon his eyes forgot.  
> And everything he seems to do reflects just another shade of blue,  
> I saw him searching into you and ached a while. . ." -- Yaz, Ode to Boy

Aaron shuffled the contents of the file back into order. He signed the top sheet. He closed the file. He moved it over to the stack of completed files on his desk.

“Wife doesn’t mind you being here on a Saturday?”

The voice caused him to pause and look up.

“She’s at her sister’s with the baby,” Aaron replied. Jason stood still in the doorway of Aaron’s office, but for the bobbing of his head.

“This him?” Jason pointed to a picture on Aaron’s bookshelf.

“Yup. That’s him.” He cleared his throat. “That’s us.” He tried to fold his hands on top of his files, but they wouldn’t stay put.

“Good looking kid. He favors Hayley, lucky for him. You guys sleeping at all?” Jason squinted and smiled at the picture.

“Some. He’s a happy baby overall. Easy, from what I understand of babies anyway.” Aaron attempted to smile. He kept his eyes on the picture Jason had been looking at and fiddled with his pen. It struck him strange that he could have so much more knowledge of serial rapists and murderers than of infants and fatherhood at his stage of the game, but that was his life. He forced his eyes to look up at Jason and found the older man looking at him with a soft smile.

“Fatherhood becomes you, Hotch.” He put his hands in his pockets. “It’s yet another shade you wear well.”

“What brings you here on a Saturday?” Aaron changed the subject. He was not ready to discuss the finer foibles of parenting with Jason. Maybe he’d never be ready. It was enough that in a moment of weakness he’d confessed to him that Haley had suggested they name the baby Gideon. _Great Destroyer_.

“Same as you, probably,” Jason said. He stepped into the office and looked around. Aaron nodded at the seat in front of his desk and Jason sat down, hands still in his pockets. In his casual, weekend attire and sneakers, there was an air of youth juxtaposed against the warm creases near his eyes and mouth when he smiled. Most people saw Jason Gideon as the wise, old sage of the BAU, but Aaron had always seen the boyish charm that existed just beneath the surface, the almost impish energy he barely contained but was so reluctant to show anyone. It was beguiling and mysterious and the fact that it alluded most others made it seem even more special to Aaron. Sacred even. “Lots of stuff has changed since I was here last. Lots of stuff has not.” He exhaled. It was difficult to read the tone of his voice, but that was Jason. 

“You settling in okay?”

“You’d let me know if I weren’t, wouldn’t you?” Jason murmured. His eyes never lost their silky sheen, like he was looking through the dark. Aaron didn’t answer his question. He frowned and furrowed his brow, but he didn’t answer the question, partly because he was annoyed, and partly because he was caught in the velvet fringe of Jason’s eyes as they flickered at him as though it was the middle of the night and they were lying in the dark, even though it was the middle of the day. They were exactly as Aaron remembered, only they were real and in front of him, not just a memory, and they were heavy with both laughter and sadness all at once. Aaron suddenly became aware that Jason was fully cognizant he’d been steeping himself in his eyes. He’d brought his hands out of his pockets and placed them neatly on his lap. Jason glanced at the picture of Aaron and his family briefly, then asked, “You ever tell her?”

“No.” It was the only syllable Aaron could manage. His throat was suddenly bone dry. He needed but did not want to clear his throat in front of Jason.

“So, she never knew?”

Aaron shook his head.

“You ever wonder,” Jason began. “If we could have done it? If we could have been happy?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Yeah. Me either,” Jason stood up and resumed his position near the photograph. He picked it up in his delicate, almost feminine hands and studied it. Aaron watched his dusky, blue shadow fall over the shelf as he set the picture back down. “Anyway, you look happy.”

“We are happy.”

“That’s good. I’m glad,” Jason smiled. He placed a hand on the door frame as he prepared to take his leave. “Does she know about you and Morgan?” His words were direct and intended to inflict exactly the wound they did.

Aaron’s mouth dropped open. It’s one thing to keep your composure in front of an unsub. You’re trained for it. You’re prepared for it, more or less, as much as you can be. But this. . . this was something entirely different. “You’re out of line, Agent Gideon.”

“Did you think I didn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t be able to tell? That I wouldn’t be able to read the cues? That I wouldn’t see the glances, the little gestures? Come on Aaron. I don’t think the rest of the team knows. . . not yet anyway. You hide it well; better than Morgan anyway.”

Aaron scowled hard as he tried to decide if he would command Jason to get out in a rage of righteous indignation, or if he would attempt to deny it all. “I have to finish up here,” was all he ended up saying. He could not meet Jason’s eyes, and instead watched his lips as they made a few words prior to departure. Jason left and Aaron found himself desperately licking his own lips over and over, trying to stimulate the saliva in his own mouth which was still so very dry.


	4. Indigo Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The things that scare us today  
> What if they happen someday  
> Don't let me out of your arms  
> For now. . .  
> What if the sword kills the pen  
> What if the god kills the man  
> And if he does it with love  
> Well then it's death from above  
> And a death from above is still a death. . ." -- Regina Spektor, the Sword and the Pen

In 1839, playwright Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote "the pen is mightier than the sword." 

Spencer didn't necessarily feel mighty when he picked up his pen, but he certainly enjoyed the sensation. 

Usually, the sound of his pen against paper soothed him. 

He always wrote to his mother with the antique fountain pen she’d given him for his birthday the year he’d turned seventeen. At the time, it had seemed an odd gift for a teenager, but Spencer had loved it all the same. It was expertly crafted, heavy, well balanced when held. Diana had given it to him right before one of her worst breaks, right before one of her longer hospitalizations. The pen required a special ink that Spencer needed to purchase from a stationary shop in Georgetown. He enjoyed his trips to the shop and purchased a fine brand of paper there as well for his daily letters to his mom. 

Luxurious, woven sheets absorbed indigo ink with a sort of thirst Spencer could hear and feel.

Usually, it was a noise he found almost as delightful as a favorite song. 

But today his heightened senses troubled him. 

There was no music in his writing, nor was there play in the shadows of tree branches as he’d walked to the office that morning. There was no elegance in the purring of the coffee pot as his colleagues chattered around it in their ever shifting kaleidoscope of patterns. His typical, familiar sensory pleasures piqued him. 

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a bug, but when he looked there was nothing but the cup of pencils and pens on Derek’s desk. 

Garcia’s smile seemed to stretch on just a little too wide, almost like her face was made of plasticine. “We’re having game night at my place on Friday,” she chirped. “Why don’t you come around this time. We are having Pictionary championships. Winner gets Hotchner’s parking space for a week and gets to pick where we get lunch from on Wednesday.”

“Thanks for the invitation,” Spencer said. He had put his pen down and forced himself to focus on the candied face in front of him. 

“Oh, come on!” 

“I don’t really play games,” Spencer said.

“Yeah you do. You play chess with Gideon all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“How is that different?” Penelope pushed the issue. Spencer tried to focus on her question and not on the ticking of the office clock that seemed to have gotten so much louder in the past hour. 

“It just is. I’m not a creative person. Chess is about strategy. There is a difference between creativity and strategy.”

“Alright, suit yourself. But if you change your mind, we’d love to have you.” She lowered her voice to a loud whisper. “JJ will be there.”

“Okay, Garcia. Thanks. Um, excuse me.” Spencer pushed his hair off of his face and made his way to the mens room. He turned on the tap and watched water splash into the sink for a few moments as he let it get cool, then cold. He thought he could still hear the clock ticking.

There was no blood test for schizophrenia. There wasn’t one when his mom had her first break, and there wasn’t one now as Spencer stood over the sink, as he filled his hands with water and brought it to his face. Of all the things he knew, he didn’t know if he had that illness ticking in him like a time bomb. Of all the things he could possibly devote himself to learning, he could not learn that, not until the bomb went off and shattered his mind and separated him from his reality. 

No one on the team knew about his mom. Schizophrenia had a strong genetic component. It might already be in him, written in his very cells as though with indigo ink. He's never confessed his fear to anyone. Not to his mom. Not to his doctors. Not to Gideon. Not to anyone. He's not superstitious, but he knows words have power. 

It was ironic. His mom knew almost everything he knew about everyone on the team. He’d filled his letters with details, rich as bouquets of wildflowers, about the people with whom he spent his days and nights, the people who had come to be his surrogate family. 

Yet, those very people knew nothing about his mother, nor did they know about the amplified ticking Spencer heard every now and again as his pulse accelerated with anxiety. Even normal shifts in perception took on different meaning for him. 

In AA there was a saying that went “You’re only as sick as your secrets.” Spencer wasn’t an alcoholic. He barely even drank. He was protective of his brain exactly the way it was and did not care to alter it with chemicals that could change it even temporarily. But at one point, he’d read the Big Book just because it was there and because he had nothing better to do. He figured it might help him at some point with his profiling. He thought now about his secret and wondered if it was making him sick. 

It wasn’t a rational thought so he disregarded it. 

He had a right to privacy, didn’t he? 

He liked privacy. He didn’t wonder what it would be like to confide in people. He didn’t wonder what it would be like to sit on a sofa, very close to Jennifer and tell her about his childhood and about his mom as she played with his hair and ran her fingers up and down the back of his neck. He didn’t wonder how it would feel to smell her skin- not just the spicy, sweet perfume she wore, but the actual tang of her actual skin in the hollow below her throat where his nose would nestle oh so perfectly. His mind did not even try to capture the fantasy of his square chest pressed up against the softness of her fleshy breasts (although he might have wondered why we evolved to give females a perfectly functional part of their anatomy that was so gorgeously lush and appealing). 

He didn’t wonder because he didn’t know what that ticking meant, and until he knew that one thing that he did not know, he could not share things in that way with people. Especially not Jennifer. 

He dried his hands and took some deep breaths. He brought his fingers to his neck and felt as his heart rate returned to normal. He’d lost the ticking noise. It had just been an anxiety attack. He was fine. 

Maybe he would show up at game night after all. 

He was fine. 

He went back out to the bullpen.


	5. What We're Good At

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out  
> You left me in the dark  
> No dawn, no day. I'm always in their twilight  
> In the shadow of your heart. . . .  
> . . . I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too,  
> so I stayed in the darkness with you. . ." -- Florence and the Machine, Cosmic Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during and after In Plain Sight. . .

She’d innocently wondered aloud if unsubs would ever run out of terrible things to do to their victims.

He’d replied humans would always figure out new and innovative ways to torture each other because it is what they were good at. He’d said it and he meant it.

He hadn’t meant to be looking quite so directly at Elle when he said it. Nor had he meant the irony to contain quite as caustic an edge, but it did, and it wasn’t lost on anyone.

An awkward silence filled the plane as they all tried to find something important to look at. Everyone, that is, except Elle, who scowled over her chart at Jason. _You son of a bitch_. She thought. She kept her lips tight to keep from mouthing the words across the aisle of the plane. But she kept thinking them like she was reciting a prayer. _You son of a bitch. You sonofabitch. Yousonofabitchyousonofabitchyousonofabitch. How could you?_

She figured the last question was really meant for her. It had been a rookie mistake to ask such a foolish question. How could she have been so stupid?

She thought of all the other questions she’d like to ask him, but not for long. It’s hard to think of much else when you have an unsub who is gluing women’s eyes open postmortem.

Jason had met Elle’s angry eyes over the case file in his lap and he held them as he felt her silently curse him. He mentally shrugged. He supposed he deserved it. They had pretending to get along and play nice for the past few weeks since he’d been back on the BAU, but beneath the veneer of professional courtesy there simmered all the tension of the past. Their past. It was about time she expressed some hostility. And, he realized with a little shove of his glasses on his nose, he did deserve it. By the time he came to this realization, she’d looked away and everyone else was refocused.

After the case, they were back on the plane, and he remembered his words. He looked over at her as she slept. _God, the woman could still sleep anywhere. What a gift_.

He tried like fucking bloody hell to forget what they had been good at.

He gave the kid his gift and watched him fumble for the words to ask blondie to the football game. He tried to think about the cake they’d had a couple days earlier at the office for Spencer’s birthday, how ridiculous the poor kid looked in the goofy hat the girls had made him wear. Jason didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he loved the smell of birthday candles after they’d been blown out. He loved the sound of her voice as she said, “Hope you like chocolate,” to the birthday boy.

And just like that, he was back to her. He was back to looking at her feet, in their baby blue soft, socks poking out of the edge of the scarf she’d thrown over herself. All at once he wanted to hold her like a doll and screw her like an animal. It wasn’t normal. He knew it wasn’t normal. He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled to himself. “Normal is overrated,” he remembered her saying once. It had made him laugh, at the time when she said it. Remembering it now, looking at her curled body and narrow feet, he smiled through the urge to weep.

It hadn’t just been hurting each other they had been good at.

If it had just been hurt at which they’d excelled, it would have been easy for Jason to look away from her partially opened lips and back to the unfinished game of chess. He could have so easily stopped being mesmerized by the delicate flicker of her eyelids. He would not have wondered about what she dreamed.

Truth was, he had never meant to be good at hurting her.

Truth was, if he had never hurt her, she would never have lashed back at him.

He didn’t know if he preferred memory of pleasure or of pain. It was a toss up, he supposed.

JJ giggled at something Spencer said. Jason supposed the kid was doing okay. That made him smile, but not for long.

She hadn’t even screamed. She’d simply shook her head and walked away. That might have been the worst of it, her silent back slowly growing smaller as she kept walking. And then it was done. And then Boston. And then his world was upside down and disorder eclipsed any notion of longing or chance for reconciliation.

The pilot announced they were about to make their landing approach. Over his shoulder, Jason watched Elle stir in her sleep. He watched her rub her eyes and slowly sit up.

“Can I give you a ride?” He caught up to her in the parking lot.

“No. I’m good.”

“You going to even look at me at some point, Elle?”

She stopped short and turned to glower at him. “Okay, Jason. I’m looking. What the fuck do you want. You wanna find some new way to hurt each other? That’s _what we’re good at_ , afterall, right?”

He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, but the burden of her abhorrence was too much to bear. He could not balance it on his back no matter how he tried. He sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“If that’s your idea of an apology, you need to go back to kindergarten and learn some really basic shit from scratch.”

“Elle,” he began. “Please, I. . . “ he couldn’t find the words to continue.

She gave him a sardonic smile and nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” She stepped off in the direction away from him. _Away from him. Away from him_. . . he couldn’t bear it.

“Wait,” he said. His voice was weak, almost inaudible. But she heard him and she stopped. He put a hand on her shoulder. It was the first time he had touched her in, oh, he didn’t even know how long. He felt the soft material of her sweater and beneath the warmth of her body. He felt the bones of her shoulder. _How can one woman have so many extra bones?_ He used to tease her. He used to make her laugh.

It hadn’t just been hurting each other they had been good at.

“What are you even doing here, Jason?” She asked. She was tired and trying to decide if she was angry or destroyed. It was a toss up. “Why the hell would you come back here?”

“I belong here,” he shrugged. “This is my home. You guys are my family.”

“Who are you going to fuck next? JJ? Spencer? Garcia? Morgan might actually be your type and it would be the perfect way to get back at Hotch. Yeah, you know, Morgan might be just the man for you.”

“God, I missed you,” he whispered. It was not what she expected to hear.

“You’re really unbelievable,” she said. She was pissed to find a tear had escaped her eye and was trickling down her cheek. He reached out and caught it on his thumb, stroking her cheekbone in the process. She closed her eyes as his hand touched her face. “I can’t do this. I just can’t. How dare you?”

“I never deserved you, Elle. I never deserved a second of your time.” He swallowed and rubbed her tear between his fingers. “Not a single second. I was the one who fucked it all away. I know that. And what I said on the plane. . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to be directed at you. It was uncalled for and I’m sorry.”

She choked on the sob in her throat. “I guess that’s an improved apology anyway,” she muttered.

“Can you ever forgive me?” He asked.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s fair,” he said. He watched her walk away, all over again.

Spencer had said there was a popular myth that eyes captured a sort of snapshot of the last thing a person saw before they died. Jason knew this was scientifically impossible, yet all the same, he knew exactly the image he’d want seared into his brain for all eternity when he went to meet his maker.

_Elle._

_She hovered over him and her eyes gleamed in the dark. Her hair fell around both their faces. Somehow he knew when she lowered her face to his, her lips smiled against him, even though it was dark. Somehow he knew if he could just keep this image imprinted on the back of his eyes forever, it wouldn’t hurt anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal and ever-loving thanks to all who have been reading and leaving comments and kudos on this work. . . Writing for such a well established and amazing fandom for the first time is such an incredibly daunting experience and it is absolutely amazing to have some feedback and support. I am so so so grateful. I can't even truly explain how much it means to me. 
> 
> I welcome and try to respond to all comments.
> 
> I know a lot of my fic so far has been very Gideon-centric, and the fandom has some mixed feelings (i.e., hatred) toward his character, so I appreciate the patience as I get to know the full cast etc. I personally find him absolutely captivating and so complex and amazing to write. When trauma is driving a person's train of behavior, it gives a lot to draw from creatively. . . I totally welcome comments around him and his controversial nature. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading my little bits of stuff!!! xoxoxoxoxo.


	6. This Woman's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pray God you can cope.  
> I stand outside this woman's work  
> This woman's world  
> Ooh, it's hard on the man,  
> Now his part is over.  
> Now starts the craft of the father." -- Kate Bush, This Woman's Work

You watch her work.

She’s unaware you watch her, so absorbed is she in her occupation. The rest of the team is impressed as well. None of them even knew she spoke Spanish. You knew, though. You know lots of things the rest of the team does not know.

You watch her brush the hair off her face.

She’s well aware of the effect she has on men. She’s well aware of the way she walks in those jeans and the way her skin of her chest and arms reflect the light. You can tell she’s warm, her muscles are malleable. She’s unaware you’re standing there with your arms crossed over your chest, twitching in your cargo pants, thinking about how she will twist her hair up onto the top of her head when she returns to her hotel room tonight, how she will toe off her boots, peel off her shirt, and turn up the AC before tearing down the bedspread and tossing herself onto the sheets of her temporary nest.

Her beauty does not detract from the fact she’s making short work of impossibility.

You watch her conduct interviews in a language in which you only understand a few words. You watch her greet victims with fierce compassion. You watch her push truth up against power with an almost surreal dignity.

She’s unaware you watch her. She’s unaware you will never stop missing the way you could find the nape of her neck in the middle of the night with your nose and inhale safety and peace to still your heart. She has no clue how savage it is- the urge to touch her, even with just one finger and even for just a moment. She’s unaware the longing will never stop gripping you like your stomach is in a vice.

You watch her work. You watch her win. You watch the rest of the team raise bottles of beer to her in the airport bar before boarding the plane to head home.

Home.

Miles from nowhere and not even knowing the language, somehow you’re still home because she’s there, across the crowded room. She’s unaware of this fact, this power she has to transport you home wherever you are just together. She’s simply stroking the beads of condensation on her bottle of beer.

Someone says something and she grins. She tilts her head and narrows her eyes.

You watch it all.

She’s aware of exactly how beautiful she is, but completely unaware how beautiful she is to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very grateful for everyone who is taking the time to slog through these chapters and comment and leave kudos. . . I promise once I work out my Gideon issues I will get to writing some more current and interesting stuff for the rest of you. I just love my broken little baby boy so much. xoxoxo.


	7. Gotten Into Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JJ and Prentiss belong together. . . so has it been written, so shall it be done.

“Prentiss, can I have a sec?”

Emily looked up from the case file she was hastily committing to memory prior to racing to the SUVs. Morgan and Reid were already waiting at the door, strapping themselves into their vests. JJ was standing at the door of the room the team had commandeered in the police station of, _oh fuck, where the fuck are we_ , Emily’s mind raced. Everything was full tilt. She couldn’t for the life of her remember what town in the middle of dry ass, podunk nowhere were they?

And was JJ scowling at her? What had she done wrong now?

“Yeah, ok,” Emily mumbled and closed the file with an annoyed little shove. She nodded over to Morgan and Reid. “Go ahead guys, I’ll be right down. She went into the back room, tossing her vest over her head as she walked. JJ was turning down the blinds. “What’s up, JJ?”

JJ approached her and reached around her to close the door. She put a hand on Emily’s wrist. “Look, I’m sorry I sort of pulled rank to get you in here like this,” she began.

“I didn’t feel that way,” Emily said. She noticed her mouth was suddenly dry and she had the strange feeling of simultaneously being flooded with and trying to suppress adrenaline, much like when she was standing outside a suspect’s apartment, gun drawn. “Um, is something wrong?” She looked down at JJ’s hand, which was still on her arm. It was gentle. It was soft. JJ’s thumb was making little circles on the bony part of Emily’s wrist.

“I just needed a moment,” JJ said. “With you.” She bit her lip. Actually, Emily noticed it looked like JJ had been biting her lips all morning. They were pink and puffy, but in a really pretty way. Emily felt the pull of JJ’s eyes on her.

“I’m confused,” she whispered. “Is everything okay, JJ? Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” JJ shook her head. She reached over to adjust the velcro strap on Emily's vest. “I’m sorry. I just. . . well, this is a bad guy and I guess I just wanted to tell you to be careful out there.”

“Uh, JJ, this is the job,” Emily said, a hint of impatience in her voice. “They are all bad guys. Well, except when they are women and then they are bad women. But you don’t need to worry. I can hold my own out there. And I think you’ve already seen I’m a better shot than Reid, so, are we cool?”

“Yeah,” JJ said. Her face had fallen into a sad mask of disappointment.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. It’s okay.” JJ’s fingers had laced themselves into Emily’s and she squeezed. Emily tried to extract them, but JJ pulled back.

“I really have to go. The guys are waiting.” Emily sighed and tried to make a face of what she hoped was cheerful reassurance. “Don’t worry. We’ll be back safe and sound.”

“Well, I do. I do worry. About you,” JJ said quietly and looked up at Emily.

“Agent Jareau,” Emily said firmly. “What in the world has gotten into you? This isn’t like you at all.”

JJ took a step into Emily and put her hand on Emily’s waist. She brought her other hand up to Emily’s cheek and stroked it. “It’s you. You have gotten into me.” She slid her hand behind Emily’s neck and almost effortlessly pulled her face to her own so their lips could meet in a delicate kiss that made Emily’s dry mouth suddenly pool with moisture. The actual contact between their lips only lasted a moment, but the warmth lingered on their skin as they came away from each other. JJ looked up sheepishly at Emily, who’s mouth was open in a surprised smile.

“Have your eyes always been so blue?” Emily asked her.

“Tinted contacts,” JJ mumbled. “They’re easier to find when I travel. But yeah, my eyes are blue.”

“Oh,” Emily sighed. “Makes sense.”

“But if you want any more of my random beauty secrets, you’ll have to go out to dinner with me.” JJ said.

“I think I would like that,” Emily grinned and for a moment she forgot the guys were waiting for her. A knock on the door startled them both.

“Prentiss, you coming?” Morgan shouted.

“Yup!” She replied, not breaking eye contact with JJ for a second. “Hey JJ, what’s the name of this town again?”

“Uh, Campbellsburg.”

“Cool. Thanks.” She raced out of the office and down to the SUVs, her lips still tingling and warm with the memory of JJ’s puffy little pout pressed against her.


End file.
